


In Light of Recent Developments

by CommanderTabbyCat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Addressing the Tarmac Scene, Awkwardness, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary is Not Present, Sherlock is actually a girl's name, post-S3, vague observations about the weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-24 13:13:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8373535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderTabbyCat/pseuds/CommanderTabbyCat
Summary: John's no expert, but he always felt somehow that long-put-off love confessions should be delivered with a little more passion than just a casual 'pass the sugar'-type declaration on a dreary Thursday evening.





	

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to my beta reader, Iamjohnlocked4life :)

Today is the day that John asks.

He’s often dwelt on it since the day that they parted ways on the tarmac, when John felt as if a leaden weight had settled in his belly and he had to shut out all thoughts of the fact that he was never going to see Sherlock again just so he could maintain some level of composure. 

Presently he’s mulling this over whilst standing in the queue of an overpriced coffee shop on his way to work. It’s a horrible grey sort of a day, the residual dampness from the rain making his coat collar itch. Not the most encouraging of days. But John is resolute: today. It’s going to be today.  
He’d come this close to marking the date on his calendar, but decided against it on the grounds that Sherlock might see it and deduce what John has planned, or at least come up with something along those lines. Better to keep quiet. 

He’d been meaning to ask for a long time. Had “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name” really been all that Sherlock intended to say? An attempt to lighten the mood when their situation seemed to be at its most dire? That possibility had certainly crossed John’s mind more than once. He wasn’t going to rule it out. But there had been something off about the whole thing; the intensity of Sherlock’s tone, for a second; the wistfulness in his expression. The fact that John was obviously meant to expect him to say… something, before he’d casually sidestepped a confession. What had that build-up been for? Just for the sake of a parting joke? John’s honestly not sure. 

And, if John’s going to be completely honest with himself, he had hoped. For one ridiculous moment, he had thought that Sherlock had been about to tell him what he’d secretly wanted to hear for a long time, and somehow everything would work itself out. God knows how, but it would be all right.  
Mind you, he can’t really complain about the outcome there. He has Sherlock back, the Moriarty issue resolved, his marriage over, and they’re more-or-less back to their old ways. 

And John is happy. No denying that. He’d missed it, their strange version of domesticity, of tailing criminals across London and spending rainy weekends indoors watching a Bond marathon or leaving some third-rate old crime show on a low volume in the background, listening to Sherlock scoff and pull it apart. Then there are Sherlock’s occasional unexpected acts of consideration more frequent now than ever before. Sometimes John will come home to find milk in the fridge, or the next episode of some show he’d been vaguely keeping up with recorded for him. 

And Sherlock. It’s good to have Sherlock back. 

They don’t talk about the events of the last few years, not in detail. It’s not their way. John is a little apprehensive about bringing it all up again; wonders whether he’s being inconsiderate by dredging up Sherlock’s bad memories. But he’ll know to back right off and abandon the subject, if he gets a negative reaction. 

He was surprised by how little he missed Mary. Not that he doesn’t feel the occasional pang, a recollection of the kind, funny, quirky woman he had initially taken her to be. He remembers what their relationship had been like before Sherlock’s return: comfortable and comforting, something that he probably could have convinced himself in the end was the right thing for him, was what “moving on” looked like. On a good day, he had even been able to convince himself that he was in love. 

He’d kept it up after Sherlock had come back. Maybe, at the time, he had even genuinely loved her. But there had always been that little voice in the back of his mind, the spectre of what if that hovered over them, the feeling that he was settling for something _decent, perfectly good, lovely, can’t complain,_ when he could take a chance at having something else, the thing that, deep within himself, he had really wanted for some time now.  
And then she had shot Sherlock in the chest, barely missing his heart, and everything had gone downhill from there, really. 

Shaking his head, John buys himself a filter coffee and, after some contemplation, a chocolate pastry. No harm having a little comfort food, compensation for if this whole business goes horribly wrong. He sits down — still a good 45 minutes or so before his shift starts, he can relax a little — and fidgets with the tiny plastic milk container, lost in his thoughts. 

***

Sherlock is sprawled across the sofa playing with his laptop, looking as if he hasn’t moved from that one spot all day, when John gets home later that day. 

“Evening,” Sherlock murmurs, not looking up. If he suspects anything, it’s certainly not apparent in his demeanour.

“New case?”

“Just doing some research into local tourism. Did you know, John, in Mathieson’s hotel two poisonings happened on the exact same date ten years apart from each other? Same method of poisoning, too. They never found a connection.” When Sherlock looks up at him, his eyes are bright, eager at the idea of a new mystery to examine. 

Despite the tension he feels, John can’t help smiling a little at the familiarity of it all. “That’s… right. Interesting. Listen, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” No sense drawing it out; John can already feel his pulse speeding up and his palms beginning to sweat. 

“Oh, yes?” Sherlock actually turns to look at him at that. 

John pauses. A part of his mind thinks it would be easier just to stand here and let Sherlock deduce him; work it out for himself. But no. He’s promised himself he’ll do this, it only seems fair, really. Besides, he’s not sure he can tolerate listening to Sherlock take him apart in order to work out the conclusion of his feelings. 

“Sherlock, before you were about to get on that plane—” Sherlock visibly stiffens at that, but nods for John to continue. “—you were going to say something... that there was something you always meant to say... I know you turned it into a joke, but for a second there, it seemed as if, well, there was something else you wanted to say?” God, that was clunky phrasing. He feels ridiculous, and wonders how much of a time period he can reasonably expect to pass before he can tell Sherlock to just forget about it. 

“I mean,” he starts saying, when it feels like the silence has stretched on too long. “I mean. I was supposed to expect something there, wasn’t I? You were setting me up to expect something.”

“Ah, yes,” Sherlock replies briskly. “I'm in love with you.”

The room is silent for a moment. Sherlock turns back to his laptop.

John blinks. “Sorry, what?”

“I said I'm in love with you, John. Have been for quite some time now. Bit of an intense moment, wasn't sure whether I'd be coming back, people often make these kinds of confessions in dire straits, don't they? Decided against it, though. You being married and everything. Messy.” Sherlock waves his hand in dismissal, and then smiles offhandedly at John, a look that says: _So that's all wrapped up then?_

This entire revelation is delivered in the most casual a tone imaginable, as if John had just asked for an account of the weather forecast.  
John's no expert, but he always felt somehow that long-put-off love confessions should be delivered with a little more passion than just a casual 'pass the sugar'-type declaration on a dreary Thursday evening. 

“I don't understand.”

“What's not to understand? I have romantic feelings for you, John. They've been around for a while. Surprised you hadn't noticed, really.”

“Yeah, well, my track record for picking up on these things isn't the best, as you keep pointing out,” John spluttered.

“Oh, don't say that. You're not that bad. I wouldn’t fall in love with just anyone.”

John still felt that there was a gist of this conversation that they hadn't yet got to. “So, what you're essentially saying is that you're in love with me, and today just decided to announce it? Just like that? How can you be so… no, this is a trick, isn’t it.” John shakes his head. “This is some kind of set-up for god knows what. You’re trying to… Jesus, I don’t know… gauge the average reaction to spontaneous love confessions in people who… I don’t know. Just… nobody’s that casual. You wouldn’t… after all this time, you wouldn’t announce something, just like that.”

Sherlock is shaking his head as John rambles, his expression unreadable. “No.”

“Then what… I mean, why? Why now?”

“Because you asked.”

Evidently something in John’s expression indicates that this is not a satisfactory response, as Sherlock continues. “I thought you might pick up on something, when I said what I said. But with everything the way it was, it didn’t seem right… it didn’t seem fair, to push it. I didn’t want to tell you outright, not in the situation we were in. And after you came home, I was reluctant to take the risk. But if you asked, if you brought it up yourself, I swore I’d tell you, then. Seemed only fair.”

“No. No, that’s not fair.” John’s fist clenches and unclenches by his side. “You didn’t… you never said… how was I supposed to know you wanted me to ask? You can’t make decisions like that, Sherlock. You can’t only give someone information on the off-chance that they only say the right thing. It’s not fair.”

“Sorry.” Sherlock swallows, the first sign that he isn't quite so cavalier about the whole thing as he's making it look. “You’re right, I shouldn’t have… sorry. I was afraid, of what kind of a reaction you’d have. But if you brought up the topic yourself, then… well, then I’d know for sure that you were at least interested in talking about it, and it seemed only fair to tell you. I didn’t really intend to tell you at all, but...” he peters off. 

“So,” says John a little shakily. “So what happens now?”

Sherlock waves an arm dismissively, the earnest moment gone. “Oh, nothing needs to _happen,_ John. I'm perfectly capable of controlling my emotional impulses. Plenty of people maintain friendships where unrequited attractions involved, sometimes successfully. We can carry on as normal, if—” He swallows. “If you'd still be happy with that.”

Despite John still being rather lost at sea, one particular term registers heavily with him. Unrequited. Does that mean that Sherlock doesn't think...

“Hang on,” he says out loud, “So you don't think I'm interested, then.”

Sherlock looks up in surprise. “Well, no,” he says shortly. “You put me right on that score. Don't you remember, the day after we met?”

“And you…” _And you believed me? he wants to say. Hell, I didn't quite believe myself. And you kept believing me, all those years afterwards, and never once questioned it? You? The man who sees everything?_ But, he supposes, it's really all by the by at this point. So instead, he takes a deep breath.

“Sherlock, I am interested. Very much so. I'm sorry, I thought you must have picked up on it at some point, all the time we spent together. But you never said anything after you turned me down the first time and then you... died.” He still chokes on the word a little. “And I had to move on. But anyway.” He steels himself. “Anyway. The point is, Sherlock, since you brought it up, you should know I'm in love with you too. Have been for a while now, too. So that's that.”

Sherlock looks genuinely surprised. “Oh.”

John nods, his lips set in a thin line. “Yeah.”

And then... the mask drops. John sees it for the first time, the display of vulnerability fluttering across Sherlock's features. Perhaps it had always been there, in his eyes, if John had been looking for it hard enough. But damned if the man wasn't an expert at putting up a front.

“Oh, my god,” he almost laughs, as the realisation hits him for the first time. Sherlock is _terrified._

In reaction to his words, Sherlock shoots him a look, but says nothing. They regard each other in the quiet room, silent for a while, both debating how to go about the next move.

“God,” John eventually says again. “We're _ridiculous.”_

Sherlock’s mouth quirks upwards, but he declines to respond. 

“We’ve wasted so much time,” John mutters. 

“I know.” Sherlock sounds apologetic. 

They go back to not talking, and in a way it's oddly peaceful, listening to the everyday little noises of the clock and the hum of Sherlock’s laptop left on standby in the corner, and the faint traffic, footsteps and voices on the street below. It’s as if time has stopped for a while, just to give them a little space to process what’s happening. 

Sherlock is the first to break the silence. “John,” he murmurs, barely meeting his eyes. “In light of recent developments, well, I was wondering…” He falters, casting his eyes down to his lap and back up again. All his facade of indifference is gone now. “I was wondering... may I kiss you?”

John swallows. “Yes. That’d be favourable, yeah.” 

Sherlock’s mouth quirks again, acknowledging the attempt at levity, before he reaches out to hesitantly touch the small of John’s back, drawing him in.  
They kiss softly at first, finding their way around each other. Sherlock, John notices, has the slight clumsiness, the slight hesitancy that comes with inexperience, an observation that makes John’s heart lurch a little. 

It’s funny, really, because when John had permitted himself to think about this before, he had thought the culmination of all their long built-up unspoken tension would be dramatic, rough and urgent, because they had waited far too long and wasted far too much time already. But as he kisses Sherlock softly, slowly, while the clock ticks in the background and the faint sounds of everyday life continue outside, and everything feels so wonderfully _correct,_ as if the world was just waiting for the two of them to get their act together and now things have finally fallen into place, it feels as if they have all the time they need to do this. 

When they eventually pull away, Sherlock looks up at him rather coyly and takes his hand to kiss his knuckles.  
“John,” he murmurs, his words muffled as his lips are still pressed against John’s hand.  
“Hmm?”  
“...I love you. I’m in love with you.”  
John smiles at that, feeling warmth bloom in his chest.  
“I don’t think I did it right the first time.”  
John laughs at that, almost giddily. “I’m just happy you did it at all. And I love you, too.”  
Then Sherlock shifts position so John can join him on the sofa, and lets John bear him down against it. 

They don’t need to say much more, after that. 

***

It’s raining again when John wakes up the next morning. That same grey, annoyingly pervasive drizzle. The weather, John thinks, rarely displays any appropriate sense of occasion. 

Sherlock is curled into him, his hair tickling John’s chest, not quite awake yet. John lets his arm rest around Sherlock’s shoulders and lies back, content to wait. 

The rain doesn’t seem quite so bad today.


End file.
